


honeymoon

by phasma



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: F/F, if a lack of name usage bugs you then idfc dont read it i guess, ladies have fun at the mall, tried to be abstract, two am word drooling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4828763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phasma/pseuds/phasma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>three little drabbles of our favourite hacker ladies based on lyrics from lana's album (you guessed it) honeymoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. fashionable to love me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place before the revolution. they deserve to have some fun, don't they?  
> title from honeymoon by lana, my love

From afar, they are models.

 

The tall, garrulous one is all synthetic leathers and bubblegum pops. A look that could drive people away, if not for her companion, who is composed of sheer silks and a natural sleekness that draws away from her timidness. Two halves of a whole. Different poles of a magnet, and the only ones able to connect. They leave a trail of envy and longing as they peruse the mall.

 

With billows of thick, unkempt hair bouncing in her wake, the tall one (most likely due to her skyscraper heels) leads the duo by the hand, stopping abruptly at every advertised sale. She wants in. Impossible brown, kettle drums of eyes tell her no, they can’t afford it. Maybe some other time, maybe when they aren’t drowning in debt. Maybe when they can celebrate the very destruction of said debt. Then they can buy the faux-gold earrings.

 

Except in a different style. Hoops are far too gaudy.

 

They need food. They settle for Cinnabon. The meeker of the two fiddles with an end of her hijab, a nervous habit blossoming from the most casual of situations. She is watching, laughing, blushing at how her friend licks sticky-sweet frosting from the corner of her mouth, almost reaching the center of the cheek. A crass comment about how it’s “Just like cum” is brushed aside with an eyeroll and a laugh. Kettle drum eyes doesn’t even need to hear the added, albeit hushed, “But ten times sweeter” to smile. To herself. For herself. Affirming, not reassuring.

 

Ten minutes and two failed selfies later, they’re walking again. Well, less walking and more trampling over her own two feet and steadying her with a hand at the waist, but it is indeed through the mall again. They try for the second floor this time, where all the bustle and buzz is left downstairs, in favour of potted plants and a grand piano. It’s one in the afternoon, and a man in an honest-to-goodness pompadour sprinkles jazz onto the keys like champagne, all bopped, bubbly, and light. The perfect music, tall one thinks, to start (attempting at) twerking. Her friend has long since dropped her hand and is slipping a fiver to the pianist, her apology not sincere in the slightest.

 

The continued exploration of the second story is not without conversation. Polite nods and hums come in not a moment early at stories of brothers and exes, and tall one tries her damndest not to zone-out at narratives of homework and schoolwork and _work_ work and no. That’s where she stops her because this isn’t about work. This is about them, and the wonderful time they are determined to have at the mall.

 

They carry on.

 

People’s gazes linger, and it doesn’t come to a surprise. Half of their steps are so dogmatic, so sure about going nowhere in particular, that the shuffling feet behind are being dragged across the tile floor. Leaving a near visible trail of scuffs, their owner tries to memorize their placement, like breadcrumbs on a forest floor. Who knows where her hurricane of a friend will lead them next?

 

It’s after window shopping, free samples, and enough dressing room shenanigans to fill a fashion-movie montage that the bread crumb shoe scuffs are completely forgotten. And thank god, or else they would’ve led straight to their newfound hiding spot. Behind a large, potted plant in a corner under an escalator—a pretty shitty hiding spot for a couple whose very jobs depend on hiding, but sufficient for the time being.

 

Sufficient for a pair of girls to glow at each other, radiating a little bit more with each “this was a lot of fun” and “way better than some lame-ass study sesh, yeah?” and sufficient to make sure no one sees them connect their shining into one, big blissful ball of light as hands find waists and faces. Upper lip finds upper lip and top lip finds top and they share the light, lost in a world of their own. Of smiles, of Cinnabon, of philodendron leaves, and just for a moment, they can forget who they are in the world. Only know who they are to themselves, to each other.

  
From up close, they are supermodels. 


	2. you just want to be seen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol, i started writing this the day i posted the first little chapter thing, but then got b u s y. so here's a second kind of drabble thing, and there's going to be one more part to this. enjoy!  
> song lyric used for title used from art deco.

She is called Trenton.

 

Apparent from the graphite scrawl in the corner of her notes, for a class she doesn’t even remember signing up for. All the more reason to get an A, to conquer the challenge. Really, it’s just more work she’s making herself do, but really she just does not care.

 

Save her care for the figure sitting crisscross-applesauce on her dorm room floor, engrossed in an old Jazzercise video playing on Trenton’s “old as  _ balls _ ” television set. Not bothering to have taken her pumps off, her legs seem hyperextended and look askew, like they could stake a hole through the wooden floorboards beneath her. It’s a good thing she isn’t trying out the movements shown by leotard-clad women on the screen. Trenton has never known who lives below her, and wants to keep it that way.

 

Fuzzy static hums through the room, and it soothes Trenton as she tries to transfer information from her coffee stained textbook to her equally stained notebook. The  _ swish, swish, scratch _ is continuous, nearly drowning out the “Stretch, stretch, lunnnge” coming from the TV. But there’s a pause in the white noise. An interruption.

 

A groan, from her friend on the floor. Trenton glances up from her writing and hits the bullseye, black impatient pupils asking  _ something _ . For her to slack off, probably, to shut her book and shut off everything that isn’t breathing, that isn’t staring. She replies by doing just that.

 

The correct answer, it would seem, and her reward is a face lit up Christmas tree style, but unlike a Christmas tree, it lights up Trenton as well.

 

It takes a minute to un-pretzel her legs and manage to stand up, but when tall one does, she has a mission. Cocking her head, looking onerous. Glaring at the stretching ladies, and then at Trenton, she extends her arm. Trenton knows exactly what’s up.

 

“Anything but that.”

 

“Please?”

 

“ _ Anything _ .”

 

“Then it looks like you’ll just have to sit back and enjoy the show.” The tight clothes tall one insists on wearing make it hard to follow along, but it’s not like Trenton’s complaining. Her friend bounces and arabesques, and Trenton does not want to get roped in because for crying out loud there is work to be done. But the more she looks at the girl, the more the phrase “a real piece of work” comes to mind. She wants to work with her.

 

Trenton’s feet have fallen asleep, so the first step her sand-filled-tape-dispenser feet take on the worn hardwood are painful. Her friend’s pure  _ squeal _ of delight is like fingernails on chalk, but they’re able to erase what’s written too. All the obligations, schedules, planning; they’re all gone and Trenton is pulled into a manic, aerobic dance party.

 

It isn’t part of the routine on the screen, but her friends puts her hands on her hips, making Trenton shake her butt, jump to the rhythm. Anonymous downstairs neighbors be damned. She shoves her friend playfully off, and uses the time that tall one wastes standing and sputtering to show her up, copy the dances of perky blonde ladies move for move. It has her friend snorting. An endearing and wonderful change from the earlier squealing.

 

As the song ends, Trenton adds a flourish with upswept arms and jazz hands, face irritatingly smug the entire time. Her friend tells her to use those moves for real dancing, like at a club or party. Trenton tells her “not in a million years” when she steps towards her. It’s taken as a challenge, of course it is. Just another one Trenton must conquer, and if that means abstaining from dancing for… a million years, then so be it.

 

But tall one isn’t letting up that easily. She practically snatches Trenton’s hand, leads in a scrunched up tango across the twenty feet of empty floor Trenton has, then around and back again. Trenton wants to cringe, not because of the clammy, moisturized hand that’s squeezing her own, but because the dance does not follow the music at  _ all.  _ She lets her feet come to a screeching halt.

 

“-And  _ lean _ over,” The TV commands. Trenton is happy to oblige. A hand at the small of her friend’s back for support, the other clasped reassuringly, she leans forward at a molasses pace, dipping her friend lower, lower, lower -and it could’ve been the high heels, could’ve been their body-shaking giggles, could’ve been because they just wanted to- but the two drop to the ground like a brick. A laughing and panting brick.

 

“Very sneaky,” Trenton is scolded. 

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“Well then maybe we should stop talking,” her eyes are staring with lazy intent on Trenton’s lips, her own open a fraction of an inch. How entirely subtle. 

 

Trenton takes the plunge. It would be rude of her not to, and they both knew it was coming the second her friend barged into her dorm. Neither of them are in a rush, kissing because it feels good, not because of an endgoal they’re trying to achieve. Kissing because it’s the best distraction in the world, because it’s completely normal for friends to do, because it feels right and perfect like a solved Rubix cube. Because they can solve everything with their kisses, when they’re together. They solve each other.

 

She is called Trenton, and she is numbed, and she is glad.


End file.
